A Cup of Tea with a Profound Prosecutor
by TennisWriter456
Summary: A prosecutor sits in his office preparing for a journey. But there is one thing he cannot seem to get off his mind. One person he cannot seem to forget. And suddenly, he has the strangest urge to share a cup of tea with him. With the man in the blue suit.


**I was just thinking about how much I love these two and then I realized that I didn't have anything to show for it. **

**So here you go. **

**Or should I say...**

**TAKE THAT!**

**:3**

* * *

A Cup of Tea with a Profound Prosecutor

The profound prosecutor reached over and slowly turned the knob on his old radio. One that his grandfather had left him for the exact purpose of listening to music for a soothing ambience. The static began softly, rising and rising until it faded to the familiar, grainy piano music. It was smooth, easy listening that filled the room and helped him feel a sense of comfort. That feeling was, after all, so rare for him nowadays. As the music played on, jazzy and smooth and making the corners of his lips fall into a content smile, he walked to his desk. Sitting there was a porcelain teapot, white and spotless and shimmering just as he liked it. With the ease of a true tea connoisseur, he grabbed the handle with his right hand and held the lid with his left and poured himself a cup. The tea, of course, he had brewed himself.

Warm tea cup in hand, he sat down at his desk and crossed his legs, swiveling his chair to gaze out his window. He felt, for a moment, that he should have been sitting on his couch to fully experience the relaxing atmosphere he had created for himself. But then he was reminded by his own musings of a phone call he had to make. One might argue, he thought, that he didn't truly have to make it; but he himself felt that he did. It was an obligation he had written for himself. And the only phone in the room happened to be on his desk, with a cord too unfortunately short to reach the acclaimed couch.

Still gazing out of the window, he took a sip of his adored tea, set the cup down on its saucer on the windowsill, and picked up the phone—an old one that he could never convince himself to replace. With deliberate, careful motions, he dialed the number. It was one that he knew well enough to dial by heart, but not well enough that he could do so without pausing to think before each digit. As he heard the phone dial, ring, he reached over and began fiddling with the Steel Samurai figurine (of course kept in perfect condition) on his windowsill.

Then, the voice on the other line answered. It was familiar and glossy.

"Phoenix Wright speaking."

"Good afternoon, Wright."

"Edgeworth! Hi."

"I trust you're doing well," the profound prosecutor said, "now that that blasted trial is over and done with."

"Sure am. You know, I don't think I ever really got to thank you for what you did."

"Don't bother—yourself or me."

"Never believed you could be such a great defense attorney."

As the man (probably in his blue suit) laughed on the other end, the prosecutor chuckled to himself and grasped the figurine more tightly.

"So why're you calling, Edgeworth?"

"I want to let you know, Wright, that I'm going abroad."

"Abroad? When?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"Very soon, I'm afraid."

"Well this is news."

"Yes, well—"

"Can't stay in one place for too long, can you?"

They shared a laugh once more, this time while the profound prosecutor sipped delicately on his tea.

"Why don't you stop by for a cup of tea, Wright?"

"What? Really?"

"Yes, really."

"I don't know. I have a trial to prepare for."

"And I a trip. But evidently, it could be our last chance to speak. For a long while."

He wondered if there was a hint—the smallest hint—of desperation in his own voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll stop by."

"Wonderful."

"See you soon then, Edgeworth."

* * *

The music had been playing long enough that the profound prosecutor was comfortable humming to it. And so, as he prepared his office for the arrival of the man in the blue suit, that was exactly what he did. He cleared, organized, recycled the loose papers on his desk—and hummed. He made sure the Steel Samurai was visible from the couch, knowing that the man in the blue suit enjoyed it—and hummed. He straightened the pillows, fluffed them to perfection—and hummed. Finally, he set up his chessboard, hoping the man in the blue suit would be willing to humor him with a game—and, of course, hummed.

Everything was well enough, he decided, and sat back down at his desk. To wait, with bated breath and a thumping heart, for the fateful knock on his door. And as he sat, he found himself immersed, lost in a labyrinth of memories. From a class trial at nine years old, convinced that a young boy was innocent, to sitting behind bars, convinced that he had murdered his own father. From the experience of his very first loss in court, both devastating and enlightening, to transforming temporarily into a defense attorney, both frightening and exciting. Trials of spirit mediums, samurais, lake monsters, murderous chiefs of police (and their chief prosecutor accomplices), handicapped circus performers, professional assassins, a dark bridge, suicidal death row inmates, coffee and whips and cravats...

And through it all had been that one man.

An ally? An enemy? A cherished rival or a cherished companion?

Struggling to find the answers, Miles Edgeworth the profound prosecutor came to a conclusion influenced by smooth music and self-brewed tea and a barrage of memories. The conclusion that the man in the blue suit was all of those things.

Phoenix Wright, the man in the blue suit, was an ally, an enemy, a cherished rival, a cherished companion.

But above all...

Phoenix Wright was a friend. A dear, dear friend.

Even if Miles Edgeworth was sometimes still in denial about that fact.

At that very moment, he was drawn away from his thoughts by a knock on his door. His fingers and tongue were still trembling from the warmth of his tea, but his heart was trembling from the warmth of his memories. He stood from his seat at his desk and began his journey to the door. First, he straightened the frills of his cravat until he felt it reach its perfection position. Next, he tugged lightly on the bottom of his blazer, wiped away any wrinkles that might have been there to tarnish his appearance. Finally, he ran his fingers through strands of hair, taking a moment to glance at himself in the mirror by the door. Acceptable, he decided with an authoritative nod. The music was still playing, at the perfect volume, and the profound prosecutor felt it was the perfect moment to open the door.

On the other side, standing with a hand in his pocket and that ever-present smile, was the man in the blue suit. And, in fact, his suit was just as blue as always. The prosecutor smiled as well, pleased with how well he had executed the meeting.

"Hello, Wright."

"Nice to see you, Edgeworth."

The man pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out, and the prosecutor gladly shook it. It was a strong, firm handshake. It was the kind of handshake, he thought, that one only experiences so many times in one's lifetime—the kind of handshake that was an entire conversation in and of itself, as silent as it was.

"Please, come inside."

"Thanks."

The prosecutor stepped aside and held the door open while the man in the blue suit entered the office, his dark eyes glistening and his hand now returned to his pocket. For a moment he paused and stood in the very center, looking around with an expression of interest. The prosecutor had always found the man's mannerisms intriguing, interesting, even comical. There was always something playful about him. He closed the door and gestured toward the couch.

"Have a seat, Wright. I'll get you a cup of tea."

The man in the blue suit grinned and sat. As the prosecutor poured the tea, he saw the man's gaze flit over to the figurine—just as he had expected. He watched as the amusement lit up his features, made his eyes glisten more. He leaned back in a fashion that was so leisurely, breathed in a fashion that was so easy, even the prosecutor felt more at ease.

"How many spoons of sugar?"

"Three."

"My, you enjoy your tea sweet, don't you?"

The man shrugged and, after unbuttoning his suit-jacket, put one foot on his knee. His gaze had moved from the Steel Samurai to the beautiful porcelain chessboard placed conveniently on the table in front of him.

"I don't drink tea very often," he sighed.

"You're missing out, I must say."

The prosecutor placed the cup on a saucer and brought it to the man in the blue suit. He nodded as he graciously received the cup, glancing inside. The prosecutor, retrieving his own cup, sat down across from the man. They simply looked on in silence for a few moments, sipping on their respective teas and living in the endless memories that hung between them. The profound prosecutor couldn't help but notice, in excruciating detail, the way in which the man in the blue suit drank his tea. He held the handle of the cup so harshly that his knuckles were white, and he drank with such incomparable vigor he might as well have been consuming an energy drink. But he was happy, it seemed.

"You look well," the prosecutor observed.

"Thanks. I can't say I'm not sore in the morning, but I guess that's what happens when you fall off a bridge," the man laughed. The prosecutor smiled.

"Yes, you're right."

"I like the music. It sets a nice mood."

"It does, doesn't it?" The prosecutor was glad that the man in the blue suit enjoyed the music. It was something else he could put on the short list of things the two of them had in common.

"So how've you been, Edgeworth? Good, I hope?"

"I've been well, yes." He finished the last of his tea and set the saucer down onto the desk. He let his eyes rest on the figurine for a few moments, glimmering in the rays of the setting sun. "Busy."

"I wish I could say the same," the man said. Then he, too, placed his cup on the desk. The prosecutor glanced inside to see it only half-empty.

_Perhaps I didn't put enough sugar in for his liking._

"I thought you said you were preparing a case."

"Oh, I am. An interesting one, too. But you know how it is." The man in the blue suit picked up the blue king from the chessboard and ran his fingers along it. The prosecutor didn't actually know 'how it was,' but he decided to humor the man with a forced smile. "Nice chessboard you have here."

"Would you care for a game, Wright?"

The man in the blue suit raised his eyebrows and seemed surprised at having been asked such a question, though the prosecutor found it a perfectly normal inquiry.

"A game? Of chess? With _you_?"

The prosecutor told himself not to be offended, because he was certain the man in the blue suit hadn't meant to insult him. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, tilted his chin up in the way that had become habit to him. The man's response made him want to play chess even more.

"Don't you know how to play?" the prosecutor asked.

"O-of course I know! I just don't think I could win," the man chuckled.

"Well, you'll never know if you don't try."

The man in the blue suit smiled at that, and the profound prosecutor could have sworn he saw a light pink shade fall upon the man's cheeks. But it just as easily could have been the light playing tricks on his tired eyes. And even if it wasn't a trick, the pink lasted for only a moment before the man's cheeks reverted to their natural shade. The prosecutor at that point decided to take the initiative. His stomach was full and satisfied with the tea, his skin warm and bright from the sun, and his mind set at ease from the music. And, of course, there was the man in the blue suit sitting across from him. There was never a better time for a game of strategy, he thought. Without another word, the profound prosecutor crossed one leg over the other and moved the first red pawn forward.

"I guess we're playing then," the man shrugged. "All right. My turn, then?"

"Yes," the prosecutor grinned, "your turn."

The man moved his blue pawn. Already, the prosecutor's mind was whirring with the thousands and thousands of strategies he could possibly use to win. He factored in all that the man might have done as well—he even thought of the man's personality (which at that point he knew quite well), and what it might have prompted him to do. The profound prosecutor was an expert in strategy, undoubtedly, and he was not about to let such a reputation be tarnished in a game of chess. As he made his next move, he glanced up at the man in the blue suit. And there was an expression of raw, passionate determination. The same expression he wore in court. His eyebrows furrowed, creating the smoothest of wrinkles on his forehead. His bottom lip jutted out slightly, his eyes narrowed, and he cupped his chin, with its thin stubble, in his fingers. The prosecutor thought that perhaps the man had forgotten to shave that morning.

Then, somehow, in the midst of their determined stares and whirring minds and silent strategizing, a conversation began.

"Hey, Edgeworth."

"Yes, Wright?"

"How come we never watched The Steel Samurai?"

"I'm not sure if _you_ watched it, but I certainly did."

"N-no, I mean together."

The prosecutor froze, his fingers placed delicately on his right-hand knight. He felt a smirk pulling up on his lips and glanced up at the man in the blue suit. His face was completely serious with the question, expectant, waiting for the answer.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "An unanswerable question, I suppose."

The man in the blue suit chuckled, the way that he often did when logical conclusions were playing out in ironic ways in his head.

"I don't think there's such a thing as an unanswerable question," the man said.

The prosecutor agreed completely, but he decided it would be better to keep silent. To distract himself for the moment, he began straightening the pieces on the board that were crooked and bringing it to even more perfection.

"So where are you going, Edgeworth?"

"I'm going to Europe. England. France. Borginia, I think."

"I've never been to any of those places. Be sure to take lots of pictures."

"We'll see about that," he laughed. He moved his next piece and his smile grew wider, for he saw victory coming closer to his reach. And he knew, from the resigned sparkle in the man's eyes, that he also saw the prosecutor's victory approaching.

"You know, I really do have to thank you for what you did."

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, Wright."

"Everything, really. Everything."

The profound prosecutor knew exactly what the man in the blue suit was talking about, but such a conversation made him nervous. Too many memories, too many emotions. The prosecutor was perfectly content not (consciously) knowing what kind of relationship he had with the man. He was perfectly content merely thinking of him as the man in the blue suit, with whom he would have truly enjoyed a cup of tea and a game of chess.

"Your move, Wright. Another cup of tea? Yours has gotten cold."

"Sure, that sounds good. Wow, Edgeworth, you've really backed me into a corner here..."

The profound prosecutor stood from his seat and walked to his desk. He touched his teapot with the back of his hand to make sure it was still warm. Not as warm as it had been initially, but he doubted that someone with limited tea taste like the man in the blue suit would mind. And even in its current state, the prosecutor felt that he could drink any tea at that point. He poured two cups as gracefully as he could and brought one cup to the man in the blue suit.

"Ah, I see you've made your move," the prosecutor smirked. "Just the move I expected you to make."

"Oh, brother. Here we go."

The prosecutor moved his red queen and snatched the blue queen with triumph pulsing through his tea-filled veins.

"Checkmate."

"Of course," the man in the blue suit scoffed.

"Come now. I may have won here, but we both know who wins in the courtroom."

Watching each other, smiling the way allies, enemies, cherished rivals and cherished companions smile at one another, they lifted their cups and drank their tea together. They were both silent until they finished. By that time, the profound prosecutor was dreading the moment that he would be left alone in his office, alone with his soothing music and lovely tea and chessboard and plane tickets. He wasn't sure, though, what that dread meant.

When the man in the blue suit had finished his tea—the entire cup this time—he put his hands on his knees and stood up, a soft smile playing on his lips. The profound prosecutor followed suit, but his mouth was in a straight line.

"I better head out. I have a lot of work to do. This case just kind of sprung up on me, you know?"

"Of course."

The prosecutor began leading the way to the door, his back straight and his hands hanging cleanly at his sides.

"But hey, Edgeworth, thanks a lot for this."

"Don't mention it, Wright. I enjoyed your company."

The prosecutor was beginning to come to terms with the fact that, for at least a month, he would not be seeing the man in the blue suit. He would not be talking to the man in the blue suit. He would not be interacting with the man in the blue suit. It was a strange feeling. It seemed as if, for the longest time now, the profound prosecutor's life had been somehow linked to that of the man in the blue suit. But now, that link was being severed.

_For the time being, at least._

He opened the door for the man and nodded. For a few moments, the man, with his glimmering eyes and his spiky black hair and his hand in his pocket, simply stood, motionless and silent, in the doorway. Then, he took the hand from his pocket and rested it on the prosecutor's shoulder.

"Safe travels, Edgeworth."

"Thank you, Wright," he replied. "Take care of yourself."

"Edgeworth?"

There was a pause, as if time itself stopped. Then, without warning, the man in the blue suit spread his arms out and stepped forward. For that split second before they made contact, the profound prosecutor tried to organize the thoughts in his mind. Tried to separate the logic from the emotion, to understand fully what he was feeling and what was playing out. But he realized almost instantly that it was impossible. There was nothing—nothing—the profound prosecutor could have done to anticipate, to understand, to resist the situation. So he just let it happen and let his subconscious emotions lead him.

The man in the blue suit pulled the prosecutor into a hug, clapping his hands to his back. He held tight. His chin rested on the prosecutor's shoulder, his bristles of hair brushed against the prosecutor's cheek. And the only way the prosecutor could respond was by reciprocating, by hugging the man in the blue suit and clapping his back, too.

"Thanks again for everything, Edgeworth. I mean it. Everything."

"Think nothing of it, Wright. Think nothing of it. I only did what any friend might do."

The profound prosecutor meant what he was saying, and he knew that the man in the blue suit meant was he saying, as well.

"Goodbye. Enjoy Europe. Make sure to come back, all right?"

"Very well," he said. "I expect to meet you in the courtroom when I do."

Miles Edgeworth watched Phoenix Wright walk down the hall—his hand returned to his pocket and his hair like the blackest of porcupines. And he hoped, more than he had been expecting, that Phoenix Wright had enjoyed himself. That he would not forget to have, every once in a while, a cup of tea with a profound prosecutor.

Then, Miles Edgeworth went back into his office, poured himself another cup of tea, and raised the volume of his radio until it was the only thing he could hear.


End file.
